


all the best it could be (just you and i)

by pynk (pinkjook)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Coming Out, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Revealed, Making Out, Romance, post-Season 1, these boys communicate their feelings for ONCE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 01:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16357808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkjook/pseuds/pynk
Summary: Arthur's never been much for pining, but he's never been much for lying, either.Not even to himself.





	all the best it could be (just you and i)

**Author's Note:**

> [me, cradling arthur and merlin in my lesbian arms and, frankly, about to heap my fucking lid] FUCK you bbc you homophobic COWARDS they were fucking GAY!

Arthur’s never been much for pining but he’s never been much for lying, either. Not even to himself.  And so he can admit, in the comfort of his own head, that he’s been pining for these past three days. Merlin’s been away, on some errand for Gaius, and Arthur’s been left alone in the castle to entertain himself.  

Which he can do full well, because it’s not like he and Merlin… well. If Arthur’s honest with himself, and he tries to be, he and Merlin are rarely separate for more than a handful of hours. Certainly they’re never separate by the span of days and miles.  And so maybe it’s normal for Arthur to feel like this, for him to be pressing fingers to his chest at night and wondering at the ache there. Maybe this is what happens to people, when they’re away from each other for the first time.

He wishes he knew when to expect Merlin back. Sometime soon, likely; another few days, if that. It feels like an unbearably long time. Arthur’s always been impatient, he can admit that. More a man of action than anything else. This waiting, especially at night, feels a little bit like burning. Makes his hands restless, makes the room too hot. He’s already drank near three cups of wine and, if anything, he feels hotter than before.

It’s horrible. When Merlin returns, Arthur is going to… he doesn’t know what. Tie the both of them together, maybe, or fall mysteriously ill and refuse to get out of bed so that Merlin _has_ to stay with him, all the day and all the night, and nobody will be able to say anything about it. Not even his father.

He shoves his head under his pillow, frustrated, but there’s no cool spot hidden there. It’s all useless. He’s been laying here for almost an hour already. The sun’s set hours ago. Arthur’s near tempted to climb out of bed and get some work done except there’s nothing to do.  He’s done all of it; he’s been unusually productive, without Merlin to distract him. He’s even read all the reports from Geoffrey, and they’re not due for discussion for another week, possibly more.

Maybe he should have another glass of wine.

He debates it for another moment before hauling himself up, calves aching from the morning’s practice. He’s already dreading dawn, he can already feel the hangover, the blunted swords against his back. His head ringing and no Merlin to laugh at him in the morning sun. No cool fingers against his temples, later in the night, when they’re both hiding in the shadows of his rooms.

Maybe he should quit drinking altogether, if it leads to thoughts like this.

He pours himself the wine anyway. He can’t think of a reason good enough not to.

He sits down at the chair behind his desk and takes a hearty swallow. Arthur amuses himself for a few moments imagining Merlin’s face if he could see him, imagining what he would say. Something about Arthur being pathetic, maybe, or something about him pining away like a Lady’s lap-dog. And then Merlin would help himself to the wine and they’d laugh the night away, like they usually do, and Arthur would have a headache at practice except it would be from lack of sleep, not too much wine. Not with Merlin there to split the pitcher with.

It’s lonely in his room, without Merlin. Feels too big, or maybe just empty. Like all the furniture’s been moved around without Arthur’s permission. His desk is too neat, too, now that Merlin’s gone. Arthur finds himself staring at the tidy stacks of his papers and the clean lines of words there. Merlin thinks he’s so subtle, that Arthur doesn’t notice him reading the papers on his desk, even though Merlin never puts anything back where he found it and always ends up smudging the drying ink. It’s become a bit of a game to Arthur, who delights in bringing up things that, by all rights, should make no sense to Merlin, just to see if he can trip him up. Just to see if Merlin will respond.

Just the other week Arthur read a report that said Lord Fallow asked for a store of their tonics because his wife had given birth to two sickly twin boys and said, _these tonics cost more than all of Lord Fallow’s warhorses put together._

And then Merlin who should have, by all accounts, been unable to follow Arthur’s train of thought said, _yes, he’ll probably need to sell a few. I heard from Emma that Lady Fallow’s not left her bed in weeks._ And then Arthur looked up from his papers and raised his eyebrow in his best approximation of Gaius’s stern look and Merlin blushed to the tips of his ears.

It was hilarious. It’s funny every time; Arthur never gets sick of the game.

He misses Merlin so badly his whole chest feels too small. It’s like his heart is too large for his body, suddenly. It’s horrible. It’s unbearable. It’s… he needs more wine. He doesn’t feel drunk at all, doesn’t feel sleepy or dizzy or even vaguely tingly, like wine sometimes makes him. He needs to be drunk. It’ll be worth the hangover tomorrow.

Except, of course, when he reaches for the pitcher he finds it empty because it’s Merlin who refills it. Arthur sits back against his chair with a defeated sigh, feeling sorry for himself. Wallowing, as Gwen would call it. Outside, the guards pass on their patrols; he can hear their footsteps, see the light of the torch under his door. In ten minutes they’ll come again because his father’s increased the patrols, in light of the recent attempt on Arthur’s life. Useless to try to sneak down to the kitchens and commandeer more wine, then. Undoubtedly it would be reported back to his father who would lecture him at dinner for being a lush while Morgana smirked at him. Better to sit here at his desk, then, wide awake and despondent and _far too sober._

He sits there while the candles burn down and tries to convince himself to pick up a book and read. He doesn’t want to, really, but it seems like the thing to do. Arthur slumps down in his chair in defeat. What would he read, even? His Greeks?

He’s saved from Homer’s verses by something tapping against his window. With luck it’ll be some magical devilry, something for him to fight off and force him into exhaustion. He near leaps from his chair in hopeful excitement, looking around for a dagger or a sword or something like that. A large fork, even. Except there’s nothing like that at his desk and, when the noise comes again, his curiosity gets the better of him and he heads for the window.

Below him, the courtyard is empty and the sky is black and dark, only a sliver of moon to see by. No evil beast is flying by his window and nobody, that he can hear, is screaming. He’s about to give it up as a late-night hallucination except the tap-ta-tap sound comes again, from the very bottom of the glass. This time, Arthur looks straight down at the rough brick wall and discovers  Merlin clinging to the side of the castle, just below his window, using his nails to tap against the window pane.

Arthur flings open his window immediately, nearly knocking Merlin off his perch as he does. “ _Mer_ lin,” he hisses, “what _on Earth_ are you _doing?”_

“I’ll explain,” Merlin says, “only, can you let me in first? My arms are about to give out.”

“What are you  _doing,”_ Arthur says again, despairingly, but he grabs Merlin’s arms and pulls him into the room anyway.

They both collapse onto the floor, Merlin landing heavily on his chest, and all of Arthur’s breath leaves him at once. He shoves Merlin off him in retaliation and Merlin bangs his head against the leg of his desk.

“What was that for, you prat!” Merlin says.

Arthur clamps a hand over Merlin’s mouth. “Shut up,” he says, “patrols have been going all night!”

“Is Uther still on about that?” Merlin says, shoving Arthur’s hand off his mouth and sitting up in surprise. “Thought he would’ve moved on by now.”

“Yes, Merlin, he is _still on about that_ because _the King_ takes threats to the royal family very seriously,” Arthur says, even though he agrees.

They’re quiet, then, and Arthur takes a deep breath. His hands want to shake but he doesn’t let them. He stares at Merlin, taking him in his entirely for the first time in days. He looks the same as ever; dingy jacket, scuffed boots, messy hair. Shining eyes. Something in Arthur’s chest shakes loose.

“It’s good to see you, Merlin,” he says. His voice is embarrassingly soft.

“Yeah, well,” Merlin props himself up on one arm and then shrugs, “thought I’d pop up and see you, now that I’m back. Just to make sure you haven’t died while I was gone.” He looks down at the floor as he says it, only glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

Arthur’s heart twists itself inside out at the sight of him but he forces the feeling down.

“You call scaling a two-story wall _popping up to see me?”_ Arthur says, only barely keeping himself from shouting. “You could have _died_ you _absolute—”_

“Oh, so it’s fine when I scale three stories with you to spy on some princess, or whatever, but when I climb up to see _you, that’s_ when it’s dangerous _—”_

_“That is entirely different!”_

There’s footsteps in the hall outside, then, and they both cut themselves off. Merlin freezes with his mouth still hanging open, like an idiot, though Arthur isn’t sure he looks any better. The guard walks past their door without pause, though, and Merlin lets out a slow sigh. Arthur takes a breath, too; he tries to match it to Merlin’s.

“I wanted to see you,” Merlin admits. The words hang in the air.

“Couldn’t have waited until morning?” Arthur says. He tries to sound joking but he thinks he misses.

“No,” Merlin says, because he’s braver than Arthur is.

“Ah,” Arthur says.

They both sit there, on the hard stone floor, frozen in place; Merlin still resting on one elbow and Arthur still sprawled on his back, head lifted so he can see Merlin while they argue. Merlin’s cheeks look sharp and hollow in the dancing light.

Arthur sits up, slow, and Merlin pushes up so that he’s on his knees. They’re closer than Arthur thought they were, now that they’re both sitting up: their knees are touching. Softly, hesitantly, Merlin rests his hands on Arthur’s thighs, looking up at Arthur from beneath his lashes. Arthur breathes out, chest hitching, and holds very still. Merlin’s fingers twitch on Arthur’s thighs, skittering out slightly, nervous. Arthur doesn’t move. He wants to touch Merlin back but he feels like he’ll break apart if he does.

Merlin moves one of his hands up to the side of Arthur’s throat, slow, so slow. Like he’s waiting for Arthur to slap it away, or say something distant and sarcastic. Arthur does neither of those things, only holds very, very still. He feels like the moment will break around his ears if he moves. Everything feels so fragile, Arthur himself included. He wants Merlin to touch him gently but he doesn’t know how to ask. Doesn’t want to ask. He only holds still and waits to be touched and prays Merlin knows, like he sometimes does, what Arthur wants without Arthur having to say anything at all.

Merlin tugs him closer and Arthur goes easy. He brings his forehead to Merlin’s and presses their noses together. Revels, just a little, in Merlin’s sudden return.

“You’re back early,” he tells him, and wants to kick himself. He’s afraid Merlin will let him go but Merlin doesn’t move. Their faces are so close together Arthur can feel him smile.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, only hesitating a little. “Gaius’s tinctures work wonders.”

He nudges his nose against Arthur’s, like he’s sharing a joke with him. Arthur doesn’t really get it but he nudges back anyway. Merlin sighs, quiet, and his eyes are so blue Arthur loses his breath. There’s stubble on his jaw and Arthur wonders at it. He wants to feel it against his mouth and so he does: he presses his lips low on Merlin’s chin and holds them there. Merlin nuzzles closer, so that they’re cheek to cheek, and Arthur can feel Merlin’s lips at the corner of his own jaw. They breathe like that, lips to jaws like street dogs, for long moments.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, but then he stops. Doesn’t say anything more.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur whispers anyway.

And then Merlin tilts his chin up and kisses him. Their lips are pressed together tight, like how children kiss, puckered and dry. Arthur breathes out, slow, and shuts his eyes. He lets it happen.

Merlin tilts his chin and their lips drag together, chapped skin catching and tugging. All of Arthur’s burning comes back at once and he needs, needs, needs… he doesn’t know what. He needs to cool down. He needs to keep burning. Merlin’s tongue presses against his lip and Arthur opens his mouth and suddenly the kiss is wet. Merlin’s tongue is in Arthur’s mouth and Arthur sits and lets it happen and burns. Merlin’s tongue slides against his, then again, then again, and Merlin’s mouth is so wet and his tongue is surprisingly cool. Arthur drinks him down.

They’re still sitting where they fell, knee to knee, Merlin’s hand still on his thigh, the other on the back of Arthur’s neck. He brings a hand to Merlin’s arm, wraps his hand around Merlin’s bicep and finds muscle there. Their tongues are still touching, sliding against each other back and forth. Arthur’s got his jaw opened so wide he thinks he must look like a snake, or something. He doesn’t really care. Merlin surely doesn’t look any better. The kiss feels wet and close and warm.

It feels good. Better than Arthur thought it would, as a squire, when he would glimpse knights kissing their ladies behind sheds and barns. He likes it, likes the way Merlin’s arm feels under his palm, likes the way Merlin’s stubble rubs against his chin. He likes it much better than the stilted, damp kisses he snuck with visiting princesses, the ones where he tried to avoid tongue at all costs, even when Princess Isobel opened her mouth against his and bit his lip.

When Merlin bites his lip he moans, and when Merlin rubs his tongue across his lip to soothe the sting he pants into Merlin’s mouth. He lets Merlin kiss him and he revels in it. He shakes when Merlin presses their mouths together again, harder than before, their chins hitting against each other. He likes it. This time Arthur’s the one to open his mouth and he thrusts his tongue against the seam of Merlin’s lips. Merlin opens easy.

And then they’re kissing with tongue, again, and Arthur’s panting and they’re both moaning and Arthur’s not embarrassed. Not even a little, not like he thought he would be. Part of him thought it would be unbearable, this type of vulnerability. But it’s not. It’s only him and Merlin and he’s let Merlin see him crying.

He feels safe. Merlin makes him feel safe.

So he lets Merlin kiss him and kisses back and lets himself moan around Merlin’s tongue. When Merlin slots their legs together and presses his chest against Arthur’s, Arthur gasps and tries to get even closer. It feels so, so good. He didn’t know it would feel like this. He didn’t know it _could_ feel like this. He wants more of it. He wants Merlin to feel like this, too. He just… he wants.

For the first time in his life, another man’s body is pressed against his, and he wants so much he feels like he’s on fire. It’s never, ever been like this.

When Merlin’s lips leave his they make an embarrassing sucking noise and a rope of spit hangs between them. Merlin doesn’t look like he cares, though, so Arthur decides he doesn’t either. Merlin looks at him, his lips slack and red and wet, and Arthur moans a little at the sight of him. He feels out of control, like his body is acting in ways he doesn’t truly understand. Merlin presses closer and Arthur’s crotch ends up flushed to Merlin’s thigh. Merlin’s head is buried in Arthur’s neck.

And then Merlin bites down and Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin as tight as he can, nails dragging down the back of Merlin’s jacket. Merlin alternates between sucking skin between his teeth and nipping at it and before Arthur knows it he’s squirming against Merlin, hips jerking at random intervals. Their chests are rubbing together, up and down, and their bodies are rolling.

All of their clothes are still on. Arthur wants them off.

Something in his chest seizes at the thought and Merlin bites another kiss to his neck before stilling. Arthur’s breathing hard, like he’s been running, and Merlin isn’t any better.

“You alright?” Merlin asks him.

He wants to say yes, wants to ignore the question and rub against Merlin’s thigh until he comes. Wants to bury his hands in Merlin’s pants and find out what makes Merlin shake. He wants Merlin to back up and smile at him and then get more wine so they can forget this ever happened. He wants… he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want what this means, because this can really only mean one thing.

He doesn’t want this and he wants it so, so badly.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Merlin looks at him. “Alright,” he says, and it’s very gentle.

Merlin leans down so that his forehead is against Arthur’s shoulder and suddenly they’re hugging. Merlin is still pressed tight against him, their legs still slotted together, chests heaving, and Arthur is still hard in his trousers but suddenly it doesn’t matter as much. It’s just him and Merlin again, Merlin comforting him like he always does. Arthur sighs, long and low, and then drops his head to Merlin’s shoulder. They’re in each other’s laps and Merlin’s hard, too, but that doesn’t matter either.

He likes to be close to Merlin. It doesn’t happen often but when it does he can’t help but revel in it.

The thought scares him. All of this scares him, suddenly: that they’re pressed so close together, that Arthur wants him closer, that he _wants_ at all. It feels, abruptly, like his father is looking over his shoulder, disgusted and disapproving. It feels like he’s naked in front of all the court, even though it’s only him and Merlin in the room.

He lets go of Merlin’s jacket and drops his arms from around Merlin’s waist. He moves back, eyes on the floor. When he looks up he finds Merlin watching him, a sad, sympathetic little smile on his face.

Suddenly, he knows that if he stood up and ordered Merlin from the room Merlin would go, then return in the morning smiling as though nothing had ever happened. They would pantomime a reunion, Merlin telling him he’d come back early, make the same not-joke about Gaius’s tinctures working wonders. Arthur would laugh and stay behind his desk and they wouldn’t touch at all. They’d go about their day, always together and never close, no hands on shoulders or backs, a little more formal than their norm. And he knows that in a week’s time all the awkwardness would melt away and it would be the same as it’s always been. Them against the world, relay partners in the game of life. A matched pair.

It would be good. It’s _been_ good.

It doesn’t feel like enough.  

“Do you want me to leave?” Merlin asks.

“I don’t know,” he says again.

Merlin pulls back, his arms falling from Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur wants to tell him not to go, to stay, to hold him. To please, please hold him. But he doesn’t and Merlin untangles them so they’re sitting across from each other, close but not touching.

Merlin licks his lips. His sad smile hasn’t left and the word, when it comes, is unbearably tender and excruciatingly understanding. “Alright.”

He wants the expression gone from Merlin’s face, wants to see him smiling. Wants to kiss the dimples in his cheeks. Wants Merlin pressed back up against him even as he’s thankful Merlin’s staying away. Arthur doesn’t know what to say. He wants that safe, close feeling back. The room feels too cold and his chest is too tight and everything is all wrong. Arthur is all wrong. And nothing’s going to fix it.

Merlin shifts like he’s going to stand and Arthur can’t open his mouth to stop him. He feels so crushingly lonely and Merlin hasn’t even left yet. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if there’s anything to do. It’s all just… useless. It’s all helpless, he’s helpless. It’s like he’s a fish caught in a net, gasping and flailing and trapped. Afraid. He’s not sure what he’s afraid of, exactly, because there’s no one here except Merlin and of course Merlin would never hurt him. But it presses down on him until his heart is pounding and his palms are sweating.

A lifetime’s worth of memories press down on him: the time he turned twelve and, egged on by the other boys, kissed a Duchess’s daughter behind the stables and his father had scolded him then laughed for ages; the time he went on his first trip as a squire and slept pressed between all the other boys, his heart pounding and cheeks hot. How, when he got older, he started to hold himself separate, away from the squires and the other knights. How practices and hunting trips had taken on a dangerous, forbidden edge; how he didn’t let the men touch him and couldn’t ever quite explain why.

Merlin stands and it’s like Arthur’s been shot with a crossbolt, the hurt comes so deep and sudden. But Merlin only wanders over to his desk and picks up Arthur’s cold dinner, still uneaten. He brings the plate over to where Arthur sits, popping a bit of cheese in his mouth as he does. Merlin sits down, this time beside him, and presses their shoulders together. He puts the plate between them, half on Arthur’s knee and half on his own.

“You should eat something,” Merlin says.

Arthur gasps out a laugh and if it sounds like something else Merlin doesn’t say anything about it. He’s not hungry but he grabs a piece of dried meat anyway, just because Merlin wants him to.

“We should talk about this, probably,” Merlin says. It sounds like he’s thinking aloud.

Arthur lifts a shoulder and chews his jerky. “Maybe,” he says.

Neither of them say anything.

“Then again, talking’s never really been our thing,” Merlin offers after a few moments have passed.

“We talk constantly, Merlin, don’t be an idiot,” Arthur says, but the words ring false. Feel a little hollow.

“Except we don’t, really,” Merlin says, a glum twist to his voice.

Arthur sighs again. It comes from deep in his chest and goes until all his air is gone. “I don’t know what to say,” Arthur admits.

“You wanted that, right? I know I kind of—”

“No,” Arthur interrupts. “It was good. It was… good.” It’s a lame attempt at reassurance but Merlin seems bolstered by it anyway.

“Good,” Merlin says.

And then they both sit there and pick at the food in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Arthur glances at Merlin out of the corner of his eye and catches Merlin doing the same to him. His chest feels tight, tight, like he’s under water and running out of air. Something feels like it’s breaking and he doesn’t know how to stop it. Doesn’t know how to fix it. He would do anything if Merlin would only— well. That doesn’t exactly matter, does it? It’s Arthur with the problem.

“I’m not afraid,” he starts, and then stops. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he’s not a liar, for all his other flaws. He shuts his eyes. “Except that I am,” he corrects, “afraid, I mean.”

Merlin waits but he doesn’t know how to continue. Doesn’t know if he can.

“Afraid of what?” Merlin asks.

“You,” Arthur says, and knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

“Me?” Merlin says, aghast and hurt somewhere deep inside him, somewhere Arthur barely knew existed. “Arthur, I would never—”

“I know,” Arthur interrupts. “That’s not what I meant. I know you’d never hurt me, Merlin. I know.”

Merlin looks close to tears but he’s trying very hard to hide it. “What’d you mean, then?” His voice is steady, for all that his eyes are shining. Arthur doesn’t know how he manages it.

“I’ve never… never.” Arthur says with a vague motion, and the awkwardness feels so mundane that it’s almost refreshing.

“Really?” Merlin says, surprised. The sad look disappears from his face and is replaced by understanding. A little humor shines through, a little bit of teasing. “The great Prince Arthur’s never—”

 _“Do not_ finish that sentence, Merlin.” He makes his voice stern but all he feels, truly, is relief. Yes, this is normal, this is safe. They’re back on familiar ground, if only for a moment, and it bolsters him, gives him the courage to say, “no, I’ve never. Not with a woman and _definitely_ not with…” he loses his nerve at the last moment.

“A man,” Merlin finishes. His voice is gentle again.

“Yes.” It seems trite, a teenage fear, not the fear of a knighted man or a crown prince. But it’s real for all its insignificance. It’s heavy.

It’s not that he’s attracted to Merlin, not really. That part… for all its oddities, for all that Arthur may not have expected it, that part is easy. It’s warm and close and safe, being with Merlin. But he doesn’t like what it means. This kiss… it casts a new shadow over the rest of his life. Suddenly, the years stretch out before him, lonely and long. A loveless marriage, a loveless marriage-bed. Always wanting, never satisfied. A dutiful performance for the rest of his life.

Just the thought makes him sick. It’s overwhelming. It’s going to be his whole life; a lifetime of hiding.

“I don’t know if I can bare it,” he says.

Merlin breathes out, hard. Arthur looks at him, at his blue eyes, and knows that Merlin can see the long, lonely years stretching in front of him, too. When Merlin says “yeah” it sounds like a confession.

“It’s lonely,” Merlin offers.

“How long have you…” Arthur trails off.

“My whole life, really,” Merlin says. 

“How do you stand it?” Arthur asks. He feels fragile, like Merlin could break him without trying.

But Merlin’s so gentle, the kindest man Arthur’s ever met, probably, and he says exactly the right thing. “I don’t keep it to myself, always. Sometimes, if someone asks… I’ll tell them. And I know other people… other men, like me, are out there, even if I don’t know them. Even if I can’t recognize them.” Merlin smiles and it feels like Arthur’s been struck. “A burden shared is a burden halved, and all that.”

“A burden shared,” Arthur repeats, wondering at the thought.

Merlin takes a deep breath and Arthur can feel when he starts shaking. It startles him and he’s reaching for Merlin before he knows it. He catches Merlin’s shoulder in his hand and pulls him in. The plate flips over in their laps, spilling cheese onto Merlin’s trousers but neither of them move.

“I have to tell you something,” Merlin says, “and I don’t think you’ll like it.”

They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, and it’s so dark, and nothing feels real. It’s like they’re caught in a dream. Arthur’s never felt more exposed, has never trusted anyone this much. “You can tell me anything,” he says, and means it with his whole heart.

Merlin takes a deep breath and then blurts it out, like tearing off bandages that have grown into a wound. “I have magic,” he says, “I’m a sorcerer.”

Arthur’s head whites out for a moment and he can’t think or feel anything at all. He breathes through it, just like he breathes through the fog that comes at the end of battle. They sit there for long moments, still on the stone floor and in the quiet safety of the dark. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he feels. It feels like a monumental confession, it feels like something should have changed. He doesn’t know what. Maybe the castle should be falling down around them. Maybe Merlin’s eyes should be glowing and Arthur should be yelling, or possibly bleeding to death. Maybe Uther should be there with anger blazing in his eyes, summoning guards and a pyre.

But none of that is happening. It’s just him and Merlin, the same as they were the minute before.

“Thank you for telling me,” Arthur says. He’s surprised to find he means it.

Merlin shrugs like he isn’t shaking where he sits. “Seemed the thing to do.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he finds himself promising, impulsively.

Merlin smiles a little. “I didn’t think you would.”

“No, I mean—” Arthur cuts himself off and hesitates. But then he looks at Merlin, and sees his drooping blue eyes, the cautiously hopeful look on his face. He forces himself to finish the sentence. “I mean I’ll protect you. And that you can talk to me, if you want. And that… and that nothing has to change.” He licks his and tries to smile. Finds that it’s not as hard as he thought it’d be. “A burden shared,” he says again.

Merlin starts crying and Arthur jolts. It’s so sudden, so unexpected— Merlin’s been so composed all evening, he doesn’t know what— he didn’t expect—

Before he knows it, he’s got Merlin pulled against him, tucked into his chest. Something in him settles and he feels more like himself than he has in days. Feels strong again. Like the protector he’s always known himself to be. He presses his nose into Merlin’s hair and looks around the room, making quiet comforting noises as he does. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a candle burning low beside his bed. He watches the flame dance for a minute and then presses his lips to Merlin’s hair. He makes a quiet vow, just to himself, to protect this secret with everything in him.

After a moment, Merlin pulls himself together. Merlin wipes his face on his shoulder and suddenly he’s composed again. It’s like he was never crying at all. “Sorry,” Merlin says.

“It’s alright,” Arthur says. The words come out thick. “Merlin, I—”

He finds he can’t finish the sentence. Merlin looks at him, damp-faced and curious. Arthur takes a deep breath and sees the years stretch out in front of him again, lonely and cold. A weight on his shoulders. And then he takes a breath and imagines Merlin there with him, making faces at him from behind a nobleman’s back, stealing wine from his glass late at night when they’re alone in his rooms. Hunting with him, running with him, laughing with him on the practice fields. Arms around shoulders, a trusted advisor for the rest of his life. Deep and wet kisses every night and morning, no less sweet for all that they’re secret.

A burden shared, he tells himself again.

This time, Arthur’s the one to lean in and press their lips together.

It’s just a little kiss, barely a peck, but Merlin looks at him and it’s like there’s stars in his eyes. They’re big and blue and gleaming, and looking at Arthur in a way nobody else ever has. Arthur’s never felt so brave, not in all his life.

“Alright?” Arthur says.

“You’re a prat,” Merlin tells him, and then they’re kissing again.

It’s like they’ve traveled half an hour back in time. Suddenly they’re pressed together again, legs slotted, tongues sliding. The safe and warm feeling is back, wrapped around Arthur like a blanket. He thinks there’s maybe spit down his chin, because they are using rather a lot of tongue, but he doesn’t care. It’s just him and Merlin, together, and there’s no room for doubt or embarrassment. Before Arthur knows it he’s panting into Merlin’s mouth. He fists his hands in Merlin’s hair and wins a shaky moan from Merlin so he does it again.

And then Merlin puts his teeth on Arthur’s neck again and this time Arthur says, “yeah, come on,” and moans. Merlin laughs, muffled and bright, and suddenly Arthur’s laughing, too, even as he shudders and pants. It feels good. All of this feels so good— Merlin’s thigh between his legs, Merlin’s mouth on his neck, Merlin laughing at him even as they kiss.

Merlin lifts his head and Arthur tugs on his hair in protest. “You’ve a bed right there, you know,” Merlin tells him, still giggling.

Arthur catches his breath. Rolls his eyes. “Get off me then, Merlin.”

Merlin stumbles off him, clumsy and still laughing, and Arthur hauls himself up with considerably more grace. Except once he’s standing he realizes his feet are numb and his knees buckle. He has to catch himself against the desk. It’s frustrating and idiotic but also a little funny. Merlin certainly seems to think so, as he starts laughing again while Arthur stands there and tries to scowl.

“This is not funny,” he says, even though it sort of is.

“Of course it isn’t, sire,” Merlin says, his shoulders shaking, because he only calls Arthur sire when he’s making fun of him.

“Shut up,” he says, willing the prickling feeling in his feet away.

Merlin presses his lips together mockingly and stands there with his eyebrows raised. His cheeks are red and his eyes are dancing. Arthur finds himself licking his lips. Merlin’s eyes flick up and down, like Arthur’s a baker’s stand in a market. Like he’s something Merlin wants.

Abruptly, Merlin walks forward until he’s stopped just in front of him. They’re nose to nose, like they’ve been a dozen times before. He meets Merlin’s eyes and gets stuck there, just looking. Merlin waggles his eyebrows and Arthur barks out a laugh, surprised, and suddenly they’re snickering into each others’ faces, laughing and laughing like they’ll never stop. It’s easy, so easy, to lean forward and kiss Merlin. He can’t believe he was ever afraid of it.

And then they’re tongue to tongue again, hips to hips, and Arthur gives up on reaching the bed. Merlin’s kissing down his neck again, and Arthur’s quivering, and suddenly Merlin’s hands are beneath his shirt, sliding across his stomach, nails trailing over his ribs. Arthur makes a hideously embarrassing _ahn_ noise and Merlin’s teeth clamp down on his shoulder in response. Arthur shoves him back. Merlin goes, lips puffy and cheeks red, and watches as he shucks his shirt off.

“I knew you could bloody undress yourself!” Merlin cries, triumphant, but Merlin’s back on him before he can roll his eyes.

“Yes, but making you do it is—” Arthur starts, but can’t finish the sentence. He says “oh, oh,” instead, hips jerking against Merlin’s thigh, because Merlin’s mouth is on his chest, Merlin’s fingers rubbing against his nipples.

If he’d known it could feel this good— if he’d known anything could— he doesn’t know what he’d have done. Been the worst squire in the world, maybe, and a horrible swordsman as consequence. Merlin puts his mouth on one of Arthur’s nipples and sucks. Arthur’s knees buckle.

“God, you really like that,” Merlin says, coming off his chest with a wet noise. He sounds reverent. Arthur shoves his head back and Merlin laughs, high and giddy. Arthur can’t respond because he’s lost control of his mouth and can only say _ah, ah_ and Merlin’s name.

Merlin spends a lot of time on Arthur’s chest, hands rubbing and tongue twirling, teeth scraping against skin. Everything goes a bit hazy. Arthur doesn’t know how long he stands there, hands wrapped in Merlin’s hair, Merlin pressed against him, but by the time Merin’s hands find the laces on his trousers he’s desperate. It’s a new feeling. He thinks maybe he likes it.

His trousers get yanked down his thighs and Merlin’s hands are immediately on his arse, squeezing and massaging. The desk is hard against his back. It’s so much, all of it is so much. Arthur thinks he might come. He’s so close.

“Merlin,” he starts, “Merlin, I’m—” he doesn’t know how to say it.

Merlin knows anyway. “Yeah, yeah,” he pants, “let me—” and then one of Merlin’s hands leaves his arse and Merlin presses it against Arthur’s cock instead. Arthur opens his mouth wide, like maybe he’s going to shout, except nothing comes out. He shakes hard against Merlin and Merlin groans and presses his face back into Arthur’s neck.

Merlin’s hand moves, not so much stroking as grinding, and Arthur’s hips jutter. He grinds back against Merlin’s hand, his whole body moving with it. It’s so good. It’s so good. It’s so— it’s _so_ —

“Come on,” Merlin says, and Arthur does.

He comes into Merlin’s hand, orgasm coming over him like waves. His whole body rolls with it, head snapping back and his hips snapping forward, rubbing into Merlin’s hand desperately. Merlin takes him through it, his palm grinding slowly against Arthur’s cock. Thick ropes of come spill out of Arthur, each one making him writhe.

It takes him a minute to settle down. Merlin nudges at Arthur until Arthur’s sat on the desk and then strokes his clean hand through Arthur’s hair. He wipes the dirty one on Arthur’s trousers and Arthur can’t find it in himself to care. When Merlin kisses him, it’s soft and Arthur opens his mouth easy, lets Merlin kiss him. He feels so good; his whole body is loose and his eyes are heavy. His cock is still tingling.

When he opens his eyes, Merlin has a hand wrapped around his cock. He’s jacking it leisurely, kissing Arthur with long strokes of his tongue. He looks good, looks better than anything Arthur’s ever seen. Arthur breaks the kiss and puts his mouth on Merlin’s throat, tries to copy the way Merlin bit at his own neck, earlier. He must do it right because Merlin starts panting a little harder, starts saying “oh, oh, Arthur, yeah—” and moving his fist faster.

He’s beautiful like that. Arthur wants to see him come. His mouth starts moving, almost by itself. “Come on, Merlin, let me see,” he urges, “let me see, let me—”

Merlin’s back arches and his eyes squeeze shut, his lips pressing together like he’s trying not to shout. He shakes. He’s beautiful.

Merlin calms down faster than Arthur did. He breathes out and settles against Arthur’s chest with a satisfied sigh. Arthur’s heart feels too big for his body, like it might jump right out from behind his ribs.

They stand there like that, cuddled close to each other, for a long time. Arthur feels his eyes slip shut and he doesn’t try to pry them open again. He breathes, deep and long, against Merlin’s neck. Merlin smells like Gaius’s tinctures, all honey and mint and forest. He smells a bit like sweat and horse, too. It’s soothing, though. Familiar. Arthur drifts.

Finally, Merlin shakes him a little. “Come on, open your eyes,” he murmurs, “you’ve got a bed right over there.”

“I know,” Arthur murmurs back. Neither of them move. They stand there and breathe until the desk digging into Arthur's back becomes too uncomfortable to ignore. This time, Arthur shakes them both, and wraps his arm around Merlin’s waist and walks toward the bed. They stumble over together, a tangle of limbs, and fall onto the blankets. He’s sure they look ridiculous. Neither of them bothered to pull up their trousers, and they’ve still got their boots on. It’s horrible. Arthur’s never felt so undignified in all his life.

He’s never felt so uncomplicatedly good, either. Never felt so loved. Because that’s what this is. It has to be. It’s love. He feels a little like he’s been struck, like the realization’s slapped him round his head. This twisting, tight, _good_ feeling in his chest is love. Merlin settles against his chest and Arthur wraps his arms around him automatically.

Arthur licks his lips. He opens his mouth and what comes out is, “it’s not safe for you in Camelot.”

Merlin lifts his head up so that his chin is digging into Arthur’s chest. “I know,” he says.

His next words hurt, feel like knives up his throat, but he forces himself to say them, because he likes to be honest, when he can. Even when it hurts. “I don’t know if I can protect you,” he says. But he’s never been a defeatist, nor a pessimist, either. “I’ll try, though. I swear, Merlin, they’ll have to kill me before they get to you.” The words are dramatic, he knows it, but his tone isn’t. It’s a knight’s promise, a battle-promise. He means the words with his whole heart.

Merlin sighs against his chest and then presses kisses to his collarbone. “I like you best alive. Besides, who says I need you to protect me?” Merlin says, and something in Arthur’s chest settles. A deep calm comes over him like a blanket. It feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. “It’s my job to protect you, anyway.”

Arthur snorts. “It is, is it?”

“It is,” Merlin agrees, peacefully.

Arthur takes a deep breath and wonders at how safe he feels, how cherished. “If you say so,” he tells Merlin, then tightens his arms and presses his lips to Merlin’s cheek and holds them there. A wordless _thank you_. Merlin understands. He leans up and catches Arthur’s lips with his own, and Arthur sinks into the kiss gratefully. Merlin always understands.

“Tell you what,” Merlin says, when they separate, “we’ll halve it. I’ll watch out for you, you watch out for me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Giving yourself the easy job, as ever,” he says.

“Now hold _on,_ ” Merlin protests, “why is looking after you easier than looking after me?”

“Because I am a Prince, and the best swordsman in all the land, and also I have guards and knights. All of the court is invested in my wellbeing, _Mer_ lin. I have to look out for you all by myself.”

Merlin sputters. “That’s not fair! They don’t do anything for you when it’s magic attacks, do they? That’s all me!”

“Yes, but _everything_ you do is on me. Therefore, _my_ job is harder,” Arthur concludes, smugly.

“Oh, it is _not,_ ” Merlin says, comically angry. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to save your royal, smug, _infuriating_ —” Merlin puffs himself up, looking for all the world like an enraged robin, and opens his mouth as though to tell Arthur exactly how many times he’d saved Arthur’s royal arse, except he’s interrupted with a cracking yawn.

“Go to sleep, Merlin” Arthur says, fighting a sympathy yawn. “You can tell me off in the morning.”

Merlin gazes at him and the anger drains out of his face, leaving only an indulgent affection. He’s backlit by the fire, his hair lit up black and orange, his cheeks glowing red. He’s sharp and beautiful and irrefutably male, and Arthur loves him so much his chest hurts with it. It feels a little like magic.

“Show me something,” he says.

“Like what?” Merlin says, not having to ask what he means.

Arthur thinks for a moment. “Something beautiful,” he says.

Merlin’s mouth curves up and he grins, big and toothy. His eyes flash and suddenly, there are sparks dancing in the air, multi-colored and coming together to form a moving picture. It’s Camelot, Arthur realizes, big and beautiful and glowing, the way Arthur’s always seen her. The way Merlin sees her, too, he realizes. Tiny people wander her streets, with tiny horses and carts, running and dancing and talking, though he can’t hear them. Laughing and loving. And there, near the gates, is a tiny Arthur and Merlin, seated on their horses.

They’re older, he thinks. He’s got a King’s crown on his head, and his hair is longer, almost to his shoulders. He’s broader, too, thick like all the strongest knights are. Merlin’s got a beard, dark and close-trimmed, and an expensive cape around his shoulders. He’s filled out some, too, in this image: his shoulders a little wider, his arms a little stronger. He looks good. They both look good. Stately and wise and smiling. Side by side, like they’ve always been. Like Arthur wants them to always be.

It’s beautiful. All of it is beautiful; the dancing sparks, Camelot in all her glory, Merlin staring up at him with golden eyes.

“Is this the future?” Arthur whispers.

Merlin grins up at him, his golden eyes shining. “Dunno,” he says. “Could be.” He hesitates. “I want it to be,” he finishes, and it sounds like a confession.

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees. He stares up at it, at the splendor of it all, and feels something lodge in his chest. Something a little like hope, and a little like determination, and a little like love. “We’ll make it happen,” he says. His voice is bone-certain.

“‘Course we will,” Merlin says, like it was never in question.

Arthur rolls his eyes, touched. “Go to bed, Merlin,” he says, shoving Merlin’s head back down against his chest. And then, “it won’t be easy,” because he can’t let the idea go.

Above them, the sparks fade away, and Merlin’s eyes shift back to blue. “Probably not,” he says. “But we can do it if we’re together, I think.” He sounds so calm, so nonchalant, like he’s talking about packing for a hunting trip. Like this glorious, impossible future is just another trip they’ll take together.

Arthur huffs, almost a laugh. He kisses Merlin’s dark hair once, then twice, then a third time, adoration swelling inside him. God, but Merlin’s a wonder. The best thing in his life.

“Together,” Arthur muses.

“Burden shared, and all that,” Merlin agrees.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know how to tell Merlin what that means to him. Arthur can’t say anything so he rolls Merlin over, settles between Merlin’s legs, and rests his weight on Merlin as he kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him through the rest of the night, Camelot's walls solid and sleeping around them. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can feel you breathing  
> with your hair on my skin  
> as we lie here within  
> the night
> 
> Grow old with me  
> let us share what we see  
> and all the best it could be  
> just you and I
> 
> -Tom Odell, Grow Old With Me


End file.
